May 09, 2012

Alone in the Boat

Today I realized again just how important it is to write. And to write in the moment.

I just stumbled across a post I wrote exactly one year ago today, The End of Infertility? And yes, those words are as true as ever. After 19 months of being in the "honeymoon phase" of being a new mom, I was suddenly, out of the blue, struck with some of that old infertility grief this past weekend.

Yes, my childlessness has certainly been cured. I will not ever be able to adequately express my gratitude for that. And yet, the infertility is still there, an ever present thing. By acknowledging it, and naming it, and putting words around it, I can at least attempt to frame it and understand it. Which does help, a little.

I can't help thinking that there must be some reason I'm dragging this up at this moment, that maybe there's someone who needs to hear these words. Because today I stumbled across yet another blog post, one that I didn't ever publish, for whatever reason, that was just sitting in my drafts folder.

Here's what I wrote in August 2010 and did not publish:

Alone in the Boat

Last week, I opened up to you all about the fact that I am infertile. Wow, it gets a little bit easier every time I say it. I have to remind myself frequently that I'm not ashamed of it. It is a fact, and it is part of my life.

I have to tell you a sad and then sweet story.

When you're infertile, you tend to gather around you a handful of friends who are in the same boat as you, who know what you're going through and can relate to your pain.

This last April, each of my infertile friends became pregnant, one by one.

How could I begrudge my sweet cousin, who has an 8 year-old son and has been trying to get him a sibling ever since, when she became pregnant with a little girl? How could I be upset when another friend, who had been dealing with horrendous medical issues for 2 years and had a very difficult time becoming pregnant the first time (5 years ago), had an unexpected miracle pregnancy? And when another friend, who had been right there with me for 4 of my 6 years of infertility, told us she was pregnant that very same week, how could I not be happy for her?

I had a very hard week that week. And I kept those feelings to myself until I could congratulate each friend with true sincerity. Each responded with such grace and sweet sympathy, knowing exactly how I felt. It wasn't that I wanted them back on the raft with me, of course not. Instead, I wanted to be swimming to motherhood shore with them.

That week, I said to my husband, "Looks like I'm rowing the infertility boat alone now."

"No you're not," he said. "I'm rowing with you."

He said the perfect thing at the perfect time. And I'll never forget it.

But there's also a truly amazing, miraculous, nearly unbelievable thing about this, a side to this story that reminds me again why I believe so strongly that there's a master plan at work for each of us. And here it is:

While my three closest infertile friends all came to be expecting babies at the same time, and I felt so utterly alone and left behind, it turns out that I also had a baby on the way. I just didn't know it yet. (And here's the story of how she arrived.)

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Alone in the Boat

Today I realized again just how important it is to write. And to write in the moment.

I just stumbled across a post I wrote exactly one year ago today, The End of Infertility? And yes, those words are as true as ever. After 19 months of being in the "honeymoon phase" of being a new mom, I was suddenly, out of the blue, struck with some of that old infertility grief this past weekend.

Yes, my childlessness has certainly been cured. I will not ever be able to adequately express my gratitude for that. And yet, the infertility is still there, an ever present thing. By acknowledging it, and naming it, and putting words around it, I can at least attempt to frame it and understand it. Which does help, a little.

I can't help thinking that there must be some reason I'm dragging this up at this moment, that maybe there's someone who needs to hear these words. Because today I stumbled across yet another blog post, one that I didn't ever publish, for whatever reason, that was just sitting in my drafts folder.

Here's what I wrote in August 2010 and did not publish:

Alone in the Boat

Last week, I opened up to you all about the fact that I am infertile. Wow, it gets a little bit easier every time I say it. I have to remind myself frequently that I'm not ashamed of it. It is a fact, and it is part of my life.

I have to tell you a sad and then sweet story.

When you're infertile, you tend to gather around you a handful of friends who are in the same boat as you, who know what you're going through and can relate to your pain.

This last April, each of my infertile friends became pregnant, one by one.

How could I begrudge my sweet cousin, who has an 8 year-old son and has been trying to get him a sibling ever since, when she became pregnant with a little girl? How could I be upset when another friend, who had been dealing with horrendous medical issues for 2 years and had a very difficult time becoming pregnant the first time (5 years ago), had an unexpected miracle pregnancy? And when another friend, who had been right there with me for 4 of my 6 years of infertility, told us she was pregnant that very same week, how could I not be happy for her?

I had a very hard week that week. And I kept those feelings to myself until I could congratulate each friend with true sincerity. Each responded with such grace and sweet sympathy, knowing exactly how I felt. It wasn't that I wanted them back on the raft with me, of course not. Instead, I wanted to be swimming to motherhood shore with them.

That week, I said to my husband, "Looks like I'm rowing the infertility boat alone now."

"No you're not," he said. "I'm rowing with you."

He said the perfect thing at the perfect time. And I'll never forget it.

But there's also a truly amazing, miraculous, nearly unbelievable thing about this, a side to this story that reminds me again why I believe so strongly that there's a master plan at work for each of us. And here it is:

While my three closest infertile friends all came to be expecting babies at the same time, and I felt so utterly alone and left behind, it turns out that I also had a baby on the way. I just didn't know it yet. (And here's the story of how she arrived.)